


In Balance with This Life, This Death

by yet_intrepid



Series: Hurt/Comfort December [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sam Winchester, Broken Bones, Caring Sam, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hospitals, Hurt Dean Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Star Wars References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That’s when Sam sees the blood on Dad’s shirt.</p><p>“Dad,” he says again, “where’s Dean?”</p><p>Dad starts the car and guns it out of the parking lot.</p><p>“Dad,” Sam insists.</p><p>“Hospital,” says Dad. “Got shot.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Balance with This Life, This Death

**Author's Note:**

> December 7 prompt: hospitals.
> 
> Title from W. B. Yeats' "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death." This fic directly follows [Pressure](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2709896), but reading them together isn't necessary.

When the car hasn’t pulled in by two in the morning, Sam’s pretty sure something’s up.

When it does pull in an hour later, he’s more than pretty sure. By the time Dad gets in, alone, Sam knows that whatever it is, it’s bad.

“Where’s Dean?” he asks.

“Get your shoes,” says Dad. “Let’s go.”

Sam gets his shoes as fast as he can. He wants info first, but if Dean’s waiting, he doesn’t have time to mess around. He’s into the car in no time flat.

That’s when he sees the blood on Dad’s shirt.

“Dad,” he says again, “where’s Dean?”

Dad starts the car and guns it out of the parking lot.

“Dad,” Sam insists.

“Hospital,” says Dad. “Got shot.”

Sam can’t breathe for a second. Then he can. “What the fuck, Dad!”

“Sam.” It’s a clear enough order. Cool it. Hold it in. Don’t panic.

Sam bites his tongue to keep from yelling but he feels like his chest is going to burst open with all the fear inside. After a minute, he gets his voice under control. “I thought this was just a salt and burn.”

“Was,” Dad says.

“And?” says Sam. He keeps it quiet but the pitch climbs desperately anyway.

“Gun-happy civvie.” Dad punches the wheel. “Saw the ghost, aimed wild. Ran off after, too.”

“Damn,” Sam mutters. And then, nervously, “How bad?”

But Dad doesn’t hear him. “Grave’s not filled in yet,” he starts. “Left some tools, too, and a gun. I need you to go over to the cemetery, clean up, get the gear.”

Anger crams into his chest beside the fear. “What?” he says. “Dad, no. I’ve gotta see Dean.”

“After you finish the job,” says Dad.

“It’s not even my job,” Sam retorts. “It’s yours. And it’s a crap one, too, if Dean got shot because of it.”

“Shut your damn mouth,” says Dad. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

“No,” says Sam. He’s going to burst; he has to; he _wants_ to. “You keep dragging us into this, Dad, and now look what’s happened. And it’s not gonna stop, you know. You keep saying you want us to be safe, but we can’t get further from safe than hunting.”

“Dean didn’t get shot because he was hunting,” Dad says. “He got shot because of an untrained gun-toting civilian.”

“Bull,” says Sam. “He got shot because that civilian saw the ghost you took him after. And face it, Dad, this could’ve happened a thousand times by now. Only reason Dean isn’t dead yet is pure blind chance and some good reflexes.”

“Shut your damn mouth,” Dad repeats. Louder this time. Every word distinct.

“No,” says Sam.

The hospital’s coming into view. Dad runs a red light.

“Listen here,” he starts, but Sam interrupts.

“No, you listen—”

“If you want to tear this family apart at the seams—”

“You’re already doing that, Dad; I don’t have to—”

 “Your brother needs me—”

“We get along fine without you most of the time, have since we were kids—”

“I was keeping you safe!”

“Oh, yeah, great job!”

They slow down in the hospital parking lot and Sam opens the door, taking off running before Dad can call him back and change the terms, say something else, make some threat that would have him reconsidering his disobedience. He bursts in through the emergency room doors.

“Excuse me,” he says at the desk, realizing he doesn’t know what name is on the credit card this time. “I’m looking for my brother, he’s here, he got shot, can I see him? Please? Is he okay?”

The lady at the desk flips through some records. “Dean Richards? Is that your brother?”

“Yeah,” says Sam. He bounces anxiously on his toes, looking over his shoulder for Dad.

“He’s stabilizing,” she tells him, and he breathes out heavily in relief. “You can go back if you want.”

“Yeah,” says Sam. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

She leads him back herself. The heart monitor is beeping just like it should and the first thing Sam sees when he peers in is a set of steadily moving lines. Then he looks at Dean.

Dean’s pale. His forearm is bandaged and splinted. He’s hooked up to an IV.

Sam looks at the nurse. “Is his arm broken?”

She nods. “We’re still figuring out the best procedure so we can also take care of the open wound while setting the bone. Your brother may end up with some metal pins in his arm, but the break itself is pretty clean considering the cause.”

“Okay,” says Sam. He looks back at Dean. “Can I talk to him?”

“Sure,” she says, stepping out of the room.“Let me know if you need anything.”

Sam sits down on the chair by Dean’s bed.

“Dean?” he says.

Dean’s eyes flicker open. “Sam?”

“Yeah,” says Sam.

“If they cut off my hand, you gotta get me a fake one that looks just like Luke’s.”

Sam blinks. “In _Star Wars_?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re always saying you’re Han Solo,” Sam says blankly.

“Guy’s gotta adjust,” murmurs Dean.

Sam recovers, then. “They aren’t cutting off your hand.”

Dean visibly relaxes. “Oh.”

“They just have to wait and figure out what’s the best way to set the break, that’s all.” All the anger inside Sam is deflating now, and a lot of the fear, too. Now he just feels tired, and very young. “Are you okay, Dean? Did you get enough meds?”

“Gave me the good stuff,” Dean says. His eyes are drifting shut again. “Doesn’t even hurt.”

“Yeah right,” says Sam.

Dean smiles just a little. “I’m always right.” He looks like he’s about to fall asleep, but then he starts. “Where’s Dad?”

“Went to finish the job, I guess,” says Sam.

“Oh,” says Dean.

“Yeah,” says Sam.

They go quiet. Dean’s breathing starts to even out and Sam just sits, listening to the intake of air. Watches the thin lines across the monitor, and thinks: the cord by which they cling to life is no thicker than that. They’re dangling over a precipice and all they’ve got holding them up is pure blind chance and some good reflexes.

 It can’t hold forever.

Sam looks at Dean’s face, pale and tinged with gray, and he knows there’s only two options now.

Get out. Die trying.


End file.
